


memories turn into daydreams

by jamesbuchanan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brief Violence, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-04 05:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10984257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesbuchanan/pseuds/jamesbuchanan
Summary: In 1973, the Winter Soldier escapes.





	memories turn into daydreams

**Author's Note:**

> this all started when showtime decided to release the first episode of 'i'm dying up here' early. it all went downhill from there.

In 1973, the Winter Soldier bashes one of his handlers over the head with a pistol and elbows the other in the gut. When both of their heads hit the pavement, he uses two of the four bullets left in the gun to leave a hole in each man’s skull. He will save the other two bullets for the men waiting around the corner. Afterwards, he will sneak in through the back door of an abandoned church to collect himself and reload his weapon. Then, he’ll take off. 

St. Mary’s, the name of the church, burns itself into his brain. It's odd, that this is what seems to cling to him. It makes him remember notions of catholicism and confessionals, bread and wine, decades upon decades of rosary’s, praying for someone’s health. They look and feel like they were decades ago and somehow it’s like they occurred only last Sunday. But the Soldier knows that this is not the place he thinks it is. This is not a borough laced with back alleys and gangsters. This is someplace sunny, someplace warm, filled with glitz and glamour and something darker.

He moves three cities over, but Hollywood's black beauty follows him the entire way. It's unsettling.

On the bright side, no one can find him; he is certain of this. He checks his peripheral often. There is no fear creeping up his spine, no feeling of being watched. If HYDRA had been onto him, he’d know long before they got close enough.

He looks to his right. The sign says Sunset Boulevard. He knows he’s heard of this place once before— in a dream perhaps. There's a postcard of the city cradled in both palms and a carbon copy drawing in pencil and hushed whispers under the sheets about the hills of California. In the same dream, he sees all that too. These things are not tangible like they used to be.

The Soldier has two options, he knows, but the numbers aren’t what matter. They will both intertwine with each other either way. He can be discreet or he can be human, the only problem is he forgot how to be the latter. Both include finding clothes, unthreading away the grime, dirt, and evilness sewn in his clothes. He starts walking.

Three blocks later he finds a store, very large and very populated. He files in with the crowd and breaks off towards the men’s section, calm and casual. He weaves between racks, discarding clothing while putting new items on. He tucks two guns securely into his trousers, hides a knife underneath the length of a pant leg. In a passing mirror he tries on a smile, strained and out of use, then drops it. He plucks a suit jacket off of a rack down the street, and slides his arms through the sleeves like they were made for him. As he passes a bar he takes a pair of leather gloves perched on the seat of a Harley and tugs them on.

He tries different smiles as he moves. They begin to feel almost _comfortable_.

On a street corner he spots a big sign plastered on the window. An advertisement reading Marlboro. Briefly, he remembers the smell of nicotine, like it’s somehow on his clothes. He catches quick glimpses, the metal railing of a fire escape, curls of smoke passing through lips he isn’t sure are his own, bone rattling coughs from a bare, skinny chest. These things are not tangible like they used to be.

He goes inside the store.

He pays for a pack with the money he pick-pocketed from some sorry schmuck he had brushed shoulders with, and pockets a cheap lighter discreetly. When he steps back outside he feels almost normal. He feels like he’s been here before, but in a different time, a different place. If he’d been smarter, he knows he’d still be there.

In the passing hours he weaves through a nonexistent crowd like he’s almost invisible. He ducks in alleyways and remembers the taste of something metallic on his tongue, recalls blossoming bruises on cheekbones, blood on knuckles. When the memories stop, he keeps moving. 

He finds a hotel, reads the word Hollywood, and walks right in. The name on the building matches the name on the hotel card in the wallet he picked up. He smiles in the hotel bathroom’s mirror. It looks calm and easy, and upon closer inspection, deceitful; that’s all he needs.

When he reenters the lobby, he skips the reception desk and heads for the elevator. He goes up two levels, then finds the back stairway and climbs the rest of the way up to the middle floors. He finds the room and slips inside, deadbolts the door. There is light pouring through curtains, drenching the living area in sunlight. The Soldier retreats the the darker part of the room, where the light hardly grazes the carpet he stands on. It’s almost on instinct that he beings to close in on himself, leaning back against the door while he watches dust particles dance in the sun.

The sun; golden hair; a mop of blonde that barely passed his shoulders. That was once a reality, once commonplace, but now a memory without a where or when. 

The Soldier inhales, exhales, feels the guns that press into his lower back. They remind him of who he is, or rather, who he tries so hard not to be when given conscience.

Slowly, he steps into the sunlight, leaving a shadow in his wake.

In the fleeting minutes of sunset, he basks in the glow in silence. His breaths are even, the room is calm. In the distance a memory makes its way back with an ethereal flare. Skin drenched in sunshine, soft cotton sheets, the hum of a radio that plays a song with no words, no melody. The Soldier’s eyes close and he thinks this is peace. He tries to remember what peace is. It is something that appears to him in a dream-like a sequence passing through nostalgic decades in quick but vivid succession.

When he opens his eyes, the sun is gone. He wonders how long he’d gotten lost in himself, wonders why he can’t do it more often. He looks up at the window and admires the new moonlight that doesn’t shine quite right. There is something mysterious about it, something warning. He pulls the curtains together, abruptly blocking out the moonlight. Such beauty is something not for him, not with his stitched together mind. He only catches glimpses of what once was. Slow dancing on hardwood while the moon’s glow creeps in through a curtain-less window, the creak of the floorboards with each step, and soft fingers curled carefully around his own. He bathes in the memories.

The Soldier lets go of the curtains and crosses into the next room. There is a bed, a television, and a trail of pajamas on the carpet leading to the bed. The Soldier lies down on messy bedsheets. There is a smell of linen mixed with aftershave. Then there is a flash of slicked back hair, roaring laughter, shining eyes, and deft fingers wrapped around soda pop. Somehow, he knows only three of those things belong to him. He inhales the smell on the pillow.

At his feet is a remote for the television. He reaches for it, knocks his head back against the headboard, and presses the power button. He shuts his eyes as the TV drones on quietly, but he doesn’t sleep. He drifts in and out of consciousness, short bursts, with distant memories that drift slowly behind his eyelids. When his eyes open and sleep finally becomes an afterthought, he focuses back on the TV. A black and white sci-fi backed by chilling guitar; he enters the Twilight Zone.

He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his jacket pocket, pushes the lighter out of his pants. He smokes while he watches the show. The smoke that passes out on the exhale distorts the TV screen. He does it again and again, watching the cigarette smoke rise up into the air until it dissipates. When he gets down to the filter, he grinds it out, conveniently, in the ashtray resting on the nightside table. He returns the pack and the lighter to his pocket. His eyes slip shut and he sleeps for a solid twenty minutes.

The Soldier leaves before the sun comes up, before the resident of the room returns. He leaves the wallet on the bed, and takes a few dollars with him.

The Soldier sneaks out of the hotel with ease, walks down the streets with a curious, newfound swagger. He stops when neon lights catch his eye, a 24-hour diner, and he feels something in his stomach. It’s hunger, he thinks belatedly. A feeling he’s strangely used to.

The Soldier orders a coffee when he enters, his voice is scratchy from disuse. The waiter gives a curt nod, and brings back a mug of coffee. The Soldier smiles in thanks; that one almost felt real. He drinks his coffee, feels the bitterness on his tongue and frowns. There’s something missing, something sweet. 

He remembers a chipped mug, a bowl of sugar, the morning newspaper in his lap. Someone sitting in the chair opposite him, stabbing food with his fork, eyes piercing into his own. Morning. Breakfast. Home.

These things are not tangible like they used to be.

He takes another sip of coffee. There is somewhere else he is supposed to be, someone else he is supposed to be, but he doesn’t know how to get back to the time or place. Memories are there for a reason, they flash and flicker for a reason. He used to be someone, _human_ , he’d call it, but there’s more to it than that. He can find it if he looks hard enough. The Soldier need only to strip away the skin that feels like leather and smells like gunpowder, and find the soft flesh underneath. Underneath there is a name, a life, a family. There is innocence and a quiet life and a boy curled up in a reading chair waiting for him to walk through the door.

When he brings the cup to his lips again he freezes halfway there. He feels a looming darkness creeping up his spine. He feels eyes burning into the back of his head. He knows there is a man sitting behind him, in the corner booth, that has come for him. They found him. It was foolish of him to think that he could dodge HYDRA long enough that he could lead them on with a trail of breadcrumbs. He lowers the mug down onto the table as delicately as he can. It isn’t delicate enough, it’s never delicate enough. He is not delicate or elegant or graceful, or at least not in the ways he should be. The man sitting behind him only proves that.

He is dangerous in the way he knows he shouldn’t be. He knows if he gets up now, the man will follow him out and attempt to corner him in the alleyway on the side of the building where three other men wait for him. He knows he has enough bullets to take care of all of them. The Soldier knows he can walk away.

He leaves two singles on the table and walks out.

The Soldier remains unfollowed for twenty blocks. He is surprised, but that doesn’t ease the tension in his shoulders. He continues on for another three blocks. The sun is just starting to come up. He walks quickly, his feet falling silently on the pavement. His hands are shoved deep in his jacket pockets. He is scared.

The memories get tucked away. On the altar of a church, a colorful postcard, in the drag of a cigarette. They’re nestled safely in hotel pillowcases, sunshine and moonlight, a metallic tang at the back of the throat. They’re left on the tabletop of a dingy Hollywood diner. The memories do not come to the Soldier, nor can they help him now.

As he’s turning a corner, his eyes catch on a teenager. A skinny, short thing, with blonde hair and long limbs. The boy smiles and he smiles back, without thinking. For a moment, there is no tension, no apprehension. There is ease and certitude and a need to reach out and protect him. This is the first mistake of many. The boy keeps moving and when the Soldier looks back in front of him, there are six men all in black, staring blankly at him along the sidewalk. The boy becomes a lost thought quickly. HYDRA’s found him. They will think they have him, that he will come walking right into the gates of Hell once more, and without a fight. He will prove that it will not be so easy. 

The Soldier flashes a wolfish grin. 

He grabs for the pistol at his back, and takes off into the streets.


End file.
